


A Hawke Halloween

by IntrovertedWife



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Cabins, Creepy, Dead People, Gen, Ghosts, Halloween, Haunted Houses, Horror, Monsters, Pirates, Skeletons, Vampires, Walks In The Woods, Witches, haunted church
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-08 15:30:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12257109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntrovertedWife/pseuds/IntrovertedWife
Summary: A few spine tingling tales to get into the halloween and Dragon Age mood.Hawke entertains three children who approach her doorstep with four stories to scare the pants off 'em. And who should she use for characters in her horror stories but those companions she knows so well? Just a bit of fun and spooks for this season of ghosts and goblins.





	1. Ghost Seas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyGoat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGoat/gifts), [nlans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nlans/gifts), [Space_aged](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Space_aged/gifts), [kelseyr713](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelseyr713/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I created a soundscape to go along with the story. You'll probably see it hiding at the start. Just click it and listen along.

By the flickering of a blood red candle, three children approached the altar. Their traditional cloaks fluttered by an unnatural breeze as they focused upon the bowed brow of a woman. She was shadowed by not only the creaking eaves of the crumbling ceiling but a hood of darkest night pulled to the middle of her forehead.

"Come in," a voice cawed from below the cloak, and a hand gnarled like a bone chewed apart by wild dogs extended towards them. "Step closer, step closer," it continued, waving them onward.

Now these children were not afraid. No, they came prepared, their fingers holding tight to the bulging bags shared between the three. As one they stepped forward to the haggard witch. "What are your names?" she asked, the voice cracking like a hanging tree split by the Maker's lightning.

"Snips," the first said, wearing a mask of ocean blue that cut off to reveal his lips.

"Snails," the second answered, donning a mask the color of dried blood that shielded his nose, and circled the eyes and chin.

The hooded woman turned a moment to the last, her voice rising with a laugh, "Does that make you puppy dog tails?"

"No," the last stuck out her chin. "I'm Lyrium!" she crowed, her head tossed back to reveal her purple mask, that covered her entire face save the eyes, glittered like stars.

"That's a new one," the woman chuckled to herself.

"And who are you?" Snips asked.

"Me?" she jabbed a thumb back into the cloak that seemed to ring a bit as if it struck something metal. "I'm the witch." Suddenly, she coughed and lifted her voice back up to the cackling range, "I mean, I'm the witch of the woods, dearie. I assume you've come to try your luck?"

All three children nodded hard, their masks twisting upon the cheap twine their parents knotted on.

"Then..." the witch extended her hand over the table before her, "pay the tribute."

Reaching into their hard won stash, Snips, Snails, and Lyrium each laid a piece of candy before their spot. A grin white as a sliver of moon rose below the cowl. Twisting her gnarled fingers around, three gold Sovereigns appeared out of thin air wedged upon her knuckles. The kids gasped in surprise; normally best they could hope for was a copper. But a whole sovereign each?

The witch laid them down before herself, each candy piece waiting to be exchanged should the bargain be met. "I assume this is an acceptable payment," the witch crowed before waving her fingers back and forth over the glint of gold a few more times for emphasis.

Nodding madly, the children all threw their shoulders back and stood tall. They were prepared to stand firm against anything this witch of the woods could throw at them.

Drumming her nails on the table, the woman mused, "Let's see. Where shall we begin? Ah, I know," her grin lit up stronger than Lyrium's namesake as she honed in on the children. "It was a dark and stormy night..."

~ * ~ 

 

Though, it didn't begin that way. Young master Bran, a man who likes to berate people because he thinks he's better than everyone, got it in his head to take his sweetheart out for a little boat ride on the Waking Sea. Few things more romantic than a gentle crest of the oars while beside the one you fancy with the shore full of people miles away. Or so Bran planned.

"I don't like the look of those clouds."

"Come come, Serendipity," Bran patted the wooden seat beside him, "there's nothing to fear. I'm here."

Serendipity raised an eyebrow at the young man's assurances, but gave into his pull. After all, he was paying for...er, he was wealthy. Sure, let's go with that. Wealthy. For a time the pair were too enthralled together, paying no heed to the rising rock of the waves, or the encroaching darkness of the skyline.

Why? They were playing a game of...Wicked Grace. Very cut throat too. Bran lost his shirt and Serendipity had him deep in the hole. Why am I laughing? Stupid joke for old people. Anyway...

By the time they both looked upward, the entire sky was blotted out. It seemed as if the shadows of death itself wrapped around them, the once soothing waves increasing to a thrashing rate. When the rains opened up to drench the pair, Serendipity cried that they needed to get back to shore. Bran, certain he knew what he was doing -- because he always thinks he knows what he's doing -- snatched up the oar and tried to paddle.

But this was a storm of cataclysmic destruction. The waves crested higher and higher, the caps white as an old dwarf's beard, rising to such a point the ocean itself could slap against the moon. Each pounding of the vengeful water sent the little boat skittering further and further into the endless void of the sea. Poor Serendipity was crying for them to come up with a plan, but Bran, he clung to that oar. He was certain it would get him back home.

Digging the scrap of wood through the water, he turned the boat around to face where Kirkwall should be. Only shadows and mists floated on their edges, leaving the poor souls unmoored from their surroundings. Serendipity wondered if they were even going the right direction, but Bran couldn't be stopped. He paddled with all the muscle in his body, which isn't much let me tell you.

Anyway.

Through the sheets of rain drenching Bran's clothing to his body, he spotted something on the horizon. A bolt of lightning zipped through the air, parting the shadows to reveal a glance of black sails fluttering like storm clouds upon a sequoia-like mast. But when he shook his head, the vision was gone. Only the endless sea circled them, certainly no pirate ship caught in the same storm.

With a laugh, Bran continued to steer the tiny boat towards Kirkwall. Wiping the downpour out of his eyes, he spotted a single lantern whipping back and forth in the winds. "There!" he shouted, struggling to rise his voice over the winds, "Land!" They were almost home.

A great crack thundered apart the very air, the taste of metal splintering Bran's world as the boat below him exploded. Screaming in his brain as his tongue fell slack, his eyes burned from the flash of white that swiped right before him. Pain overwhelmed his tender body and the lightning strike flung him up through the air. With a great splash to rattle his bones, Bran struck the vengeful seas and began to sink into the briny depths. Pain sundered his limbs from him, unreachable to his brain as he drifted ever further from life-giving air. The man's sight faded to darkness as he watched the shrapnel of his boat bob on the surface above.

When Bran awoke, he gasped in a great breath as if his lungs had been deprived of air for hours. Whipping his soggy head around, he found no more storm, not even a sign that one had been in the area. The sky was cloudless, all of the Maker's stars shining down on the man lost at sea. Clinging in his hand was the oar, which must have been what pulled his lifeless body up to the surface.

Where was his boat? There wasn't even a single plank left floating on the waves, only his weary soul. How far did the waves pull him? Twisting through the eternal chill of the sea's waters, Bran tried to get his bearings. All that surrounded him was the eternal, ever looming threat of death. Blackness to the left, the right, below, and above. If he guessed wrong, any attempt, any choice to move this way or that could end in his death.

He was truly damned to the sea.

Shadows shifted deep within the indigo horizon, a great grey mass cresting through the waves. Bran squinted, trying to get whatever it was into focus, when the mass turned and began to bear down upon him. "Oh Maker," Bran cursed, his arms struggling to paddle out of the way, but he couldn't compete with a massive ship coming to destroy him.

It moved unlike any other ship he'd seen, almost as if it floated above the waves and required no wind to fill its always bursting sails. He had no prayer to escape its wake, which was certain to drown him and batter his broken body upon the passing hull. Terrified of the future before him, Bran froze in place -- his entire body falling limp while the only thing keeping him afloat was his trusty oar.

Cresting closer, the great ship filled all of Bran's vision. His entire world was nothing but black planks of the hull beating apart salt water on its mission to rip and drown him. Gritting his teeth, he bared down for the inevitable.

Suddenly, the ship's ice-white, almost glowing against the backdrop sails shifted direction. Turning as if it followed no rules of nature, the great galleon twisted to the side, pulling up right next to Bran. "Hello there," a woman's voice called out from the darkness. "Looks like you need a hand."

"Yes!" Bran shouted, already swimming his way towards the bobbing ship. Hooking a hand onto the ladder, he scurried his way higher. Step by step, he felt the pull of the sea dripping off him. _You failed in dragging another man to your depths, sea serpents,_ he laughed to himself while stepping onto the deck of his saviors.

A dozen men glared at the bedraggled man plucked from the ocean's heart and deposited at their feet. They snarled from jagged teeth, beady eyes glaring out beside pitch black patches, tattoos of every unseemly image that burned the soul were embedded deep into their flesh. Bran gulped deep as he stared at the assembled crew of brigands, his finger worrying the oar clutched in his hands.

"Welcome to my ship," a woman's voice reverberated from the perch beside the wheel. With a great smile, she eased her way down the stairs towards Bran. "I am Captain Isabela," she winked while doffing her mighty captain hat and taking a bow.

"Caw!" a bird called from high above their heads. Feathers flitted from the top mast onto the deck as the bird circled down to land upon the woman's shoulder. "All Souls Belong To The Deep."

She smiled at the bird with plumage as black as midnight, "This is Polly. He's a bit of a chatterbox. And look at you," she turned to Bran, "soaked to the bone and parts beyond, I imagine. Here, we should get you a change of clothes. Maybe something of the tattered knee and sleeve variety." Her ravenous eyes hunted over Bran's body while he kept glancing around the mysterious ship. None of the captain's crew were speaking, each eye shifting from her back to him. The night was silent save the creak of wood propelling itself above water.

"Madam..." Bran began, which she chuckled at.

"My friends call my Isabela," her eyes sparkled like gimlets and she seemed to smile as deep as a skull, "and my crew...well, you'll learn all about them soon enough."

"I, please, I need to return to Kirkwall."

The woman whistled to her men and shouted boaty talk to get them to haul anchor and do things to the sail. When she glanced back at Bran, Isabela chuckled, "Why would you want to head to Kirkwall?"

"It's...it's my home," Bran struggled to explain, when he felt every man lean closer. Their eyes never shifted off of him even as they pulled up ropes, and tugged on lines.

Polly broke into flight, black feathers tumbling from the sky as the bird flitted up to its perch. While trailing the vision, Brand spotted the flag wafting in the breeze. Dark as a heartless ribcage, the black sign of allegiance to no man, no shore whipped against the night air.

Pirates! He was rescued by the dreaded pirates who stalked the seas.

But Bran wasn't stupid. No, not our old Bran. He wasn't about to be keelhauled into some pirate gang, because he had connections, you see. "I am grateful for your assistance," he began, trying to not shuffle out of the Captain's unblinking view. Showing weakness was just as likely to get him killed. There was only one thing these pirates answered to, and that was gold.

"And, the Viscount is liable to be grateful as well. In fact, if you return me post haste I dare say he will reward you immensely."

He expected the Captain's eyes to gleam with avarice, but she cackled instead. With her head thrown so far back it was a wonder her hat stayed on, she laughed towards the night sky. "Gold? What do we need with gold, boys?" she shouted to her crew who all began to laugh as well.

_Pirates who cared nothing for gold? What madness is this?_

"Don't you worry your pretty little head there, sweet thing," Isabela purred at him. "We get you into a proper outfit, strap a dagger to your thigh, and you'll settle right in."

"You are not listening to me," Bran thundered, "I am under secretary to the Viscount! He requires me at all times." The Captain twisted her head at that, her arms crossing against her heaving bosom. Stomping his foot in annoyance, Bran shouted, "I am very important!"

"All Souls Belong To The Deep. Caw."

The Captain tipped her head down, only the rim of her hat visible as she whispered, "Where do you think you are, sweetie?"

Bran stumbled backwards, his eyes darting around the deck, "A ship..." The eyes were staring, eyes of butchers and murderers, eyes that glinted like the coins on a dead man's lids, eyes that never moved, that never blinked. _Maker's breath, why weren't they blinking?_

A breath hitched in his throat, causing Bran to whip his head around anew. None of the snarling crew's chests were rising, none took in a breath. Almost as if-- As if they were all....

"A ship," Isabela smirked, her grin growing more toothy with each word, "of the dead." As she lifted her head the skin and muscle dripped off in oily rivulets revealing a smiling skull below. Black hair clung to nothing but a bleached skeleton, the clothes -- tattered to rags -- dangling off cracked bones.

"Andraste's Blood!" Bran shrieked, his feet scattering him further and further away from the monstrosity. His eyes whipped around to watch as all the other pirates shed their flesh to become a crew of skeletons, bones clacking through the air while they hefted the mainsail and raised anchor. A caw drew his eyes skyward and a skeleton without feathers tumbled out of the night's air to perch upon the clavicle of the Captain. She roughed a bony finger over the bird's beak and laughed, turning Bran's blood ice cold.

"This is a-a cursed ship," he cried, his eyes turning towards the sea waters below. He had to leap off, to risk the freezing cold and drowning, or else... "I will not die here!" he shouted, his hands digging into the sides of the ship. The oar that saved his life clattered to the hull while Bran tried to prepare himself.

He expected the cutthroat crew to rush towards him, for bony hands to lash onto his flesh ready to devour it, but no one moved. All of the eyeless sockets twisted towards the captain, who took one rattle step forward. "Sweet thing," she purred, the macabre smile never leaving, "you're a bit late on that."

"What?" Bran cried in confusion. They were going to kill him, slice out his organs, use his skin to make a sail! He had to defend himself. Fumbling down, Bran hefted up the oar he abandoned, when his eyes finally registered the shattered ends.

Lightning struck the paddle, ripped through not only his boat, but his body. The pain was immeasurable, like his veins filled with acid, his muscles were each diced into pieces inside his body, before he plunged deep, deep into the sea. And that's where he hung, his corpse bloating with salt water until the ship appeared and raised him out of the unforgiving depths.

Water erupted out of the Bran's mouth, a continual spray drenching the deck as he tumbled to his knees. His lungs, frozen inside his dead chest, forced out the last of the sea it tried to steal away. Watching in horror, Bran stared at his bloated fingers, grey as the grave. He tried to listen for a heartbeat, to feel a warm breath grace his lips, but none would come. None would ever come again.

"You're one of ours now," the Captain crowed, her hand once against coated in flesh landing upon his back. "And ours never ever leave because..."

The twisted bird, a raven of death itself, cracked open its beak, "All Souls Belong To The Deep."


	2. Leave

"That wasn't scary," Snails thundered, hands upon hips while glaring at the witch across from him. Her eyes darted around the room before she tugged her hood further down.

"Are you sure?" the witch crackled, fingers waving in the air. "Creepy skeletons. Haunted pirates! Woo! Looks like your little friend there is shaking in his boots."

Under the blue mask, Snips' lips trembled but at the glare from his fellows he stuck out his chin. "N-n-n-no I'm not. It's not scary at all."

Rolling her eyes, Lyrium sighed, "He was dead the whole time is so trite."

"You know the word trite?" their witch said, her voice back to a booming volume as it shook the glass on her table. That caused the children to pause a moment, looks shared at how familiar the roar seemed.

As one they moved to snatch up their coin, but the witch held out her hands. "Wait, wait, double or nothing. I mean," the cackle returned, "there are three of you, three coins, three chances." Their hands slid away to the side, but the children's hungry eyes remained fixated on the glint of gold. "Three tales to tell," the witch laughed, her head thrown back, "One down, two to go..."

 

~ * ~

 

 

Needing to focus and finding it impossible in the puss-ridden city, a young man set out for the solitude of the deep woods. An old cabin squatted far off the road between the skeletal trees of a dying forest. Battered and grey as an urn, the roof's bowed edges and partially boarded up windows twisted and warped the bones of the place until it looked as if the entire structure was about to lunge forward and devour the man.

No, Anders shook his head. He was being superstitious. There was nothing wrong with the cabin the dwarf told him about. It was perfect for what he needed. Solitude and quiet, nothing more. The inside reeked of decay and age, but Anders cracked open the windows allowing a warm autumn wind to swipe away the stench of death in the air.

Rather cramped, all things considered. There was a sitting room with a few chairs scattered about a rug. The charred fireplace loomed against an entire wall, so great it could burn bodies whole inside. Beside him sat a ladder, which led up to the tucked away loft designed to hold a small bed. A nice amenity, but all Anders truly needed was the desk resting near the back of the cabin.

Carved from real cherry wood, with orange firelight dancing against the grain it almost looked as if the desk itself was bleeding. The ink pot was dug in deep into the desktop to prevent spills, which Anders quickly refilled from his stash. As the final drop of black splattered into its new glass home, he pulled free his quills. They were a masterpiece to behold, as he'd tell people endlessly on, and on, and on because talking about quills is _so_ much fun.

I mean, they were beautiful, plucked from the tails of no two similar birds. A dove's was cut at a strong 45 degree angle, giving him a thick point. From an owl, he achieved the finest line imaginable, barely a hair's breadth upon the page. But his real favorite, the one he relied upon constantly, came from a startled raven. Blacker than the ink it wrote with, when Anders held that feather in his fingers, no words were walled off from him. His hand would dash for hours and hours without end.

Which was what he needed. With a flourish of his fingers, he yanked open the book, sat in the unflinching writing chair, and began to manufacture his manifesto.

The candle burned ever lower, Anders eyes only wandering away from his screed against tyranny to note the fire's level. Hours had to have passed before he paused, the beloved raven's quill dipping into the ink to rest a moment. "Maker's breath," he groaned to himself, struggling to stretch out the crick in his neck.

"Hello..."

Anders whipped his head around, his heart holding in place. _Did he just hear that?_ The cabin was far too tiny for anyone to hide inside -- from the desk he could see every inch save the loft. Great. That'd be just like the dwarf to tell him about the cabin, then sneak ahead and hide in it to mess with him. Or Isa...some other woman who's not the pirate queen from earlier. Running a hand against his blonde scruff, Anders hauled himself up the ladder fast.

The bed was built into the cabin itself, only the mattress capable of being changed out over time -- which at the moment appeared to be extra lumpy almost as if it held an unexpected addition. Cracking his knuckles, Anders waited a moment while watching the lumps. Whoever was here to annoy him knew to remain perfectly still.

Latching onto the sheet, Anders gave a great yank while shouting, "Got you, you sneaky bast...!"

Three pillows lay upon the naked bed, none of which were capable of giving a cheery hello. Even still, Anders jammed a hand into each to see if anyone could be hiding deeper in. "Getting jumpy," he sighed, already certain he imagined the voice.

Sliding down the ladder, he moved to scrounge up a bit of food out of his pack, when his eyes caught a glint against the afternoon light. A sliver of metal was hidden below a rug. Curious, Anders flung the rug back to expose a massive metal door built into the bottom of the cabin. A lock the size of his fist shackled the two doors together. Only one reason someone keeps their cellar locked, either that's where they hide all the valuables they stole as bandits, or the bodies they killed as murderers.

He should really let it go. Return to his writing. There was a lot left to do after all. Anders shifted towards the desk, but his eyes refused to leave the lock. They hungered for it, ached with curiosity. Needed to sunder the thing and see what lay below. "Besides," he shrugged to himself, "if there's anything valuable I might be doing someone a service in finding it."

Certain in that little lie to himself, he drew forth fire against the lock. Oh yeah, he's a mage. With blonde hair and tends to wear a lot of bandages despite not being hurt. Never really understood why but...right, the story. The lock didn't just fall apart, it fully melted, dripping against the doors until it was forever joined with them. And the secret basement forever unsealed.

After the metal bits cooled, Anders hauled open the doors. Impenetrable darkness circled the air below. A great chill danced up Anders' spine as he rubbed against his arms. "Well," he laughed to himself, "this is why mage fire was created." Rising up the veil on his hand, he peered deep into the pit. Whatever was inside waited so far down it may as well rest in the core of thedas itself. But Anders was a stubborn son of a...ass. And when he got something in his mind, oh let me tell you, there was no talking him out of it. No matter how stupid.

"Nice of someone to leave a ladder," the man continued to talk to himself while easing down into the creepy cellar, in the creepy cabin, in the middle of the creepy woods. His words pinged against the packed earth slipping further and further away, acting as a way to convince himself he wasn't truly alone. When his boots struck against ground, Anders took a deep breath.

There could be bodies, or monsters, or monsters made out of bodies. Who knows in this world. Prepared for anything that thedas could throw at him, the man turned on his heel, lifted up his lighted hand, and stared into the abyss.

Nothing.

There was nothing in the small cellar. Even the shelves burrowed into the earth itself were picked clean. Not a jar, not a gold coin, not even a finger bone. It was as empty as a revenant's grave. "A whole lot of buildup for nothing," Anders whined, kicking at the packed dirt.

He began to climb back up the ladder, but a foul wind crested against the back of his neck. Instinctively, Anders wiped against it but felt nothing save his own hide. "Just a breeze," he muttered to himself while climbing, but deep in the recesses of his brain he wondered how it could have been warm.

Slamming the basement shut and returning the rug, Anders sat down at the desk and resumed his writing. It carried on deep into the night, the words flowing like rivers of water but with words. Good words, really. All those magey words about mage things. Exhausted but pleased with the pages of his never ending manifesto he put down, Anders left the book open to dry while he pulled himself up to bed to get some sleep.

The fade came quickly to him, but he didn't dream as normal. It was all dark jagged edges and flashes of red, with the sound of footsteps clanging against stairs, and fists pounding upon metal. Underneath it all, he heard a voice barely legible but clearly in distress, begging for him to leave.

When Anders woke, sweat perforated his brow. He gasped in a breath, his heart pounding a mile a minute. "Gah!" he groaned, struggling to work out a fresh crick in his neck. Sleeping in a new bed was always such a pain.

"So's growing old," he muttered to himself. Shaking off the nightmares clinging to him like a crusty towel, Anders was prepared to face a new day. Even through the odd dreams, he had a few revelations he couldn't wait to get onto parchment. With a spring in his body, even if it was cramped from the day before, Anders slid off the ladder and stepped towards his work.

### LEAVE!

Etched in red ink across two pages of what he spent all of yesterday writing was that single word. _Damn it!_ Anders snarled, pacing around in a circle while the rage boiled in his veins. He spent hours writing down everything on those pages and someone...someone comes along and defiles it like that! They were going to pay. No doubt it was the dwarf having a laugh somewhere.

More certain than ever that someone had to be hiding in the cabin, Anders prodded into every nook and cranny he could find. He even jabbed a finger into a few mouse holes, but every single one came up empty. There was no one here, save himself.

Maybe whoever did it skipped on back to Kirkwall, Anders tried to convince himself. It made sense. Mess with him, then vanish, thereby messing with him twice. Sounded like a dwarf thing to do. Or maybe the elf. Trying to calm the snarl in his heart, Anders dug back into his work.

First he had to recopy his old words without the red stain, then he was free to continue onward. As his anger cooled to justice, the words came yet again. It seemed as if the cabin fueled his muse, atrocities committed against his people laid out in plain black and white for any to understand. By the time he looked up from his work, he blinked in surprise at the candle burned to nothing more than a stub of liquid tallow.

Breath dancing against the wick, smoke curled around his head while he smiled at his work. Pleased, and certain no one would dare mess with it tonight, Anders trailed up into his little bed and fell fast to sleep. The dreams were deeper than before, an endless void with scars of red gouged into the side's of his eyes. He couldn't stop flinching, the voice in the background growing louder. "Leave!" it all but screamed at him, causing the fade to rip away and leave him gasping for breath in his bed.

Dawn's light radiated through the windows a few hours strong, but Anders felt exhausted. He placed a hand to his forehead and groaned at the deadness in his veins. It felt as if he hadn't slept a wink instead of the full night. Scrubbing off his cheeks, his fingers glanced against his neck and he hissed at a blinding pain. That damn crick wouldn't vanish for anything.

Shaking it off, because he's good at ignoring obvious problems, Anders stepped slowly down the ladder. What he needed was food, and a long drink of water. His tongue lay parched to the roof of his mouth, his throat raw as if it'd been screaming all night. Laughing at the thought, he moved to reach for a carafe left beside the sitting chairs, when his eyes darted over to the desk.

"No!" he shrieked, the water splattering through the air as he slammed the cup down.

### LEAVE!

It stretched from the entire margins of the book until someone dug the quill deep into the desk itself. "Who's doing this?!" he snarled, the blood in his body pounding as he whipped his head back and forth to find the culprit.

Another search of the cabin commenced, but again nothing was found. No one. He even took a look around the area outside to see if there was a tent or campsite, but only the cautious trill of birds flitting through dead branches filled the air. If it weren't for the constant vandalism, he would be dead certain he was completely alone.

"It's got to be the elf," he growled to himself, dragging his weary body to the chair. With a resigned sigh, stubborn Anders once again copied over the graffitied pages and ripped free the ones stained in red. Stuffing them with the last two, he hurled all four into a desk drawer that only carried cobwebs, and got back to proper work.

Rabid dog or no, he wasn't about to give up on his cause. It beat in his veins, carried in his blood stronger than anything else in his life. But Anders was weary, and he only lasted until the horizon began to shift to orange and purple. If he got in a good sleep tonight, and didn't have to restart tomorrow, then he might be able to finish this soon.

With a smartass smirk on his lips, and an idea in his heart, Anders closed his book and glanced around the quiet cabin. The fireplace! No one would ever think to look there for his manifesto in order to defile it there. Lifting up the remains of a half charred log, Anders stashed his book for safekeeping. His hands were coated in black soot from his plan, which he wiped down his pants without thought.

There, safe and sound and no surprises in the morning. A great yawn ripped through Anders' throat and he stretched his arms wide. Exhausted beyond measure, he could barely make it up the ladder to the bed before tumbling deep into an unbreakable sleep.

The dreams wouldn't come. There was no sight. No colors. Not even a voice, just the unending darkness as his body twisted inside of the void. A warm breath danced against the dream Anders' ear and he winced. In turning his head around, as if he could see through the impenetrable night, a voice screamed all around him.

"LEAVE!"

He tried to sit up, his brains rattling from the bone rending scream, but he felt too weak to rise. The crick enflamed at the side of his neck, pain throbbing to the back of his skull and across his shoulder. "Maker damn this cursed bed," Anders grimaced while trying to shift towards the ladder.

Just gripping onto the edge was traumatic to his worn body. He felt a jar from the bottom of his toes up through his teeth, but he willed himself downward. The only consolation to his exhaustion was that he'd finally pulled one over on the elf, there was no way he could have found the book and ruined it.

Smiling at his ingenuity, Anders turned towards the desk and his eyes bulged out of his head. Laying open was the book, black handprints smudging up the desktop from the bastard who wrenched it out of the fireplace. Barely able to keep a great wail pinned to his tongue, Anders impotently glared down at the bright red threat left for him.

### LEAVE!

He stumbled into the chair, fingers gripping onto his hair. Slowly, he flipped through his manifesto to find the same curse sketched onto every single page. All his work for naught. The hours. The days. The soul sucking exhaustion. For nothing. Because that damnable elf snuck in here and destroyed it. He wanted to cry, to scream and hurl things, but Anders wasn't going to be cowed by some childish scribbles.

No. He was too proud to give in. He would fight no matter what.

But... He leaned forward a bit, a hand trying to keep his exhausted head up. Sleep daunted him, his eyelids shuttering with every breath. Returning to the bed would be too much work. It was best if he just took a nap here, his head cushioned by his life's work. At least he wouldn't wind up in so much pain from that lousy mattress.

As Anders closed his eyes and nestled in for a nap, a thought flitted through his mind. _Where was he getting the red ink from?_

Bang.

His eyes flew open.

Bang. Bang.

Nothing but the unending darkness of the void surrounded him, Anders' breath catching as he faced a return of the same nightmare. Return to slumber. This doesn't concern you.

He was tempted by the voice whispering in his mind, but he shook his head and the pain sundered his assertions. This was no dream. Burning the last bit of energy in his body, Anders raised his head and reached for the flint. His fingers, numb from sleep, stumbled against the striker and nearly sent the candle tumbling off the desk.

No. He would not be taken in by shadows and his imagination. Willing strength into his soul, Anders struck the flint and brought a sliver of yellow into the black world. The dancing flame drew his weary eyes right to it, almost soothing like a mother's lullaby. The voice that called to you from outside your crib before you could see, assuring you that you were safe forever.

A warm breeze wafted against the back of his neck. He reached behind to wipe it away, when he caught black. Black stains upon his palms. The same ones from the fireplace, where he hid his book. Where someone else had to have touched the same charred log. Gotten the exact same marks on their hands.

His entire body locked in tight, every hair lifting as it sensed he wasn't alone. Slowly, Anders twisted his chin, his eyes darkening from the loving embrace of the fire to the endless pitch of the void.

Rows of jagged teeth embedded into receded black gums gnashed the air. Skin pale as death itself wafted like crispy parchment upon muscleless bones as the emaciated creature lifted a hand and grinned. "Hello."

Anders spun a hand out, trying to will a spell to his hand, but his body was untethered to his mind. No spell would come. No attack would drive his fists. Only the spine shattering horror of the creature before him could command his mind now. He stared, incapable of doing anything else, while his lips continued to mouth one word, "Darkspawn."

A hand lashed onto his head, yanking it far to the side. Incapable of moving, he watched as the creature's endless row of fangs drilled into the exposed flesh. Warm, sticky blood welled up out of the gash, which the darkspawn greedily sucked into its bottomless gorge. Time slipped away as Anders watched the creature feed upon himself. He could do nothing, could not move, could not blink, only hung upon this eternal torture while his life essence filled the gullet of an unholy monster.

When he finished, the darkspawn tossed Anders' head aside, a black tongue lashing a foot out of the mouth to lap up all of the spilled blood. It left a slick stain of putrid saliva upon Anders' bare flesh and coat. After licking his fingers, the creature smiled, "Til Tomorrow."

Horrified, Anders watched it haul up the basement doors and slink back inside. _Why couldn't he move? He had to get out of here! To run, to flee!_ Anders tried to will his muscles, but his legs were limp, his arms dangling useless at his side. Even in the back of his brain he could feel the darkness encroaching upon him. Soon it would return, yanking him back into the void where this nightmare would purge his memory, wipe the horrors away as if it never happened.

There was only one hope. Fingers fumbling, he yanked up the raven's feather, but his body was too weak. He couldn't sit up to reach the ink well. Dipping the point into the last of his blood, Anders began to write upon the only parchment near him.

L-E-A-V...


	3. Monastery

"D-d-d-darkspawn!" Snails was trembling in his short pants so hard, that red mask threatened to flop right off.

"Yeesss," the witch loomed higher, her fingers dancing in the air to emphasize her words. "Evil darkspawn that will suck out your blood and turn you into one of their own! Woo!"

"Nu-uh," Lyrium notched a hand on her belt and glared at the two scaredy cats in their midst. "Darkspawn don't do that."

The witch paused and turned to the girl in purple. "An expert on darkspawn, are we?"

"My daddy fought them. Said that they die same as everything else." She stuck her proud chin out, the certainty of childhood easing away the creek of wood that could be a darkspawn prowling for their blood, or the clang of branches on the window that could be a pirate skeleton clawing for the dead. Both boys began to nod in agreement with the girl that the entire story was preposterous.

Shrugging, the witch slipped back into her chair. "Alright, you drive a hard bargain kid. One more story to twist your spine and pop your eyeballs out with fear!" She jabbed a finger at each to emphasize her words, the boys yelping when it was their turn, but Lyrium remained unmoved.

Her eyes burning upon the glint of gold, she shored up her spine for the last test and smiled, "It better be a good one."

 

~*~

 Forgotten in the high hills of the Free Marches rested a monastery that seemed to have been carved from the very bones of the mountain itself. No one remembers when it was built, or by whom, some claiming that it once belonged to the elves. Magic seeped into every stone long before it was ever claimed by Andraste's faithful. The forest ensnaring the land was haunted beyond measure, the local farmers having tales as long as their beard about creatures who'd stalk the trees and drag grown men up into the branches to gobble them up whole.

Brother Sebastian paid no heed to the tales, he was proud of his little monastery that succored five men of the cloth away from the politics of sisters and mothers. Here they could revel in the chant of light, singing it to the shadow of the mountain. It was a shame really that none of the villagers made the long trek to the high peak of the monastery.

No one ever warned the monks, you do not open the door at night in the Shadowed Mountain. And you certainly don't do it during the full moon.

His knees bent against the altar, Brother Sebastian prayed as fervently as a soul could. He begged for Andraste's blessing, for the Maker's gaze, and for a much shinier belt buckle. Midway through the canticles of configuration, a great boom broke through the very foundation of the monastery. Brothers dashed out of their alcoves, heads covered in brown cloaks as they darted around to find the source of the sound.

"Brother Sebastian," they cried in one voice.

Sebastian smiled and rose to his feet. "It appears we have a visitor," he crowed to himself while turning towards another knock upon the great doors. Taller than a giant, carved from an ancient tree that stretched to the stars, there were whispers amongst the locals that those doors were designed to ward off evil in all its forms. But, they ceased to work when you opened them.

Wrapping a hand around the great brass ring, Sebastian began to tug upon it, when the monks as one grabbed onto his arm. "Brother Sebastian," they cried yet again, terrified of the night howling outside their door.

"We are servants of Andraste," Sebastian smiled, "and it is our duty to provide succor to those searching." Unhappy, the men released him, scuttling back towards the wall as the door opened.

Standing in the never ending downpour was a shadow cloaked in black. The rain suckered a cloak tight to the head and shoulders of what appeared to be a man with his arms folded across his chest. "Come in and be welcomed, my friend," Sebastian continued to crow, caring nothing for the trembling fear in his fellow monks.

As if floating over the stones, the stranger moved to step across the threshold of the chantry. He paused a moment, his head tipping skyward, and from beneath the impenetrable cowl a sliver of a smile broke. Framed against his tan lips was a white tooth as sharp as any dagger.

Whatever magic there was to keep unwanted outsiders at bay held no power against this man as he slipped inside and bowed his head. "Thank you," rumbled deep in the shadow's chest, his voice that of a landslide about to destroy an entire village.

"I am Brother Sebastian, this is my flock," he extended a hand towards the others who were all trying to vanish into the mists. "May I ask who you are?"

The cowled head twisted back and forth, surveying the occupants. Fingers emerged from deep in the cloak and gripped onto his hood. Slowly, as if revealing a terror beyond imagination, the man tugged down his hood and he stepped into the full flame of Andraste. Hair white as snow stood in massive peaks and valleys off his head, skin a shade of sandy brown from parts far beyond. While the ears may have given the monks pause, as steepled as any of the elves of lore who stole children for their blood and bones, what no doubt really caught them were the marks. White as his hair, they seemed to cover his entire body, tattoos of an unknowable meaning slicing against his chin and forehead. A few were even visible upon his naked hands, which he returned to the cloak.

"Fenris," he rumbled, giving out no more than need be said.

The others started, dashing away in fear that the stranger might begin ripping them to shreds, but Brother Sebastian would not be so moved. He had faith, and nothing could take that from him. "You must be hungry."

His lips lifted in a toothy grin, and the wolf twisted his head around at the five fat dumplings on display. "Famished," Fenris muttered.

"Come with me," Sebastian smiled, guiding their new stranger towards the dining hall. "I'm afraid it isn't much, but the gruel is warm and the mead is acceptable. Please, sit."

While the stranger sat bowlegged upon a bench, Sebastian went to fetch the evening meal. The other monks clustered on the other side, most keeping a watchful eye upon the unknown threat. The Brother tetched his tongue at such ill manners, but served them all and bowed his head.

Beside him, he heard the stranger scrape a spoon against the bowl. Coughing, he said aloud, "We always give thanks to the Maker for our bounty before eating."

Haunting eyes, as green as a soul, burned through Sebastian, but nothing could mar the monk's certainty. Dropping the spoon, Fenris clasped his hands together to join in the prayer. The other monks followed suit, but did not bow their heads. All were too focused on the wolf standing in the midst of their flock, watching as he did not speak any of the Bride's words. What unholy demon could not even mouth along to Andraste's chant of light?

"Very good," Sebastian smiled at the end, "let us eat. I am starving tonight."

The stranger offered no complaints for the meager meal, nor compliments. He funneled the weak gruel into his mouth without pause, as if the man had gone without food for days. Or was it simply the wrong kind of sustenance? When the meal was finished, Fenris remained sitting in place, his green eyes whipping from monk to monk as if he expected one of them to provide the entertainment.

One brother could no longer stand the scrutiny and staggered to his feet. "Forgive me, but I seem to have left my prayer book in my room."

"Very well," Sebastian gave his blessing, smiling proud at the man for intending to give into proper holy reading. He watched the lone monk dash out of the room, the man never looking back at the stranger seated in place.

A shame, for he missed the hungry eyes trailing his movements, the tongue lapping against the lips as he seemed to be sizing the portly monk up. Suddenly, the stranger turned to the Brother. "Privies?"

Sebastian smiled, "Allow me to show you, my good friend."

"Brother!" the monks sat forward, all well aware of the ravenous eyes that followed their fellow man out the door. But Sebastian would hear no ill word spoken of the man from out of the rain. He glowered at them for speaking out of turn, then offered a hand to the stranger.

Together, both Brother and Wolf vanished out the door.

The monks buried their heads together, whispering about their fear of the man. His eyes, they were so large. His ears, they were so long. His teeth, they were so sharp. Clearly no man of that cut could be formed in the Maker's love. Whatever brought him to their door on this full moon night could only be for malice.

A feral scream boiled all the blood in their veins as it tore through the monastery. Leaping to their feet, the monks dashed to follow the sound. It did not take them long to come across their lost brother, Sebastian sitting beside the broken body. His mutilated skin already ashen, the man's intestines spilled out of a massive gash in his stomach. They dangled like winter sausages, a wet slap bouncing against the man's bed frame as his body trembled in its final death throes.

Every brother fell to his knees in a panic, barely able to look at their fellow soldier in the Maker's army. "He's dead!" they screamed, prepared to rend their cassocks in terror and grief, when the culprit came dashing up from the far corridor.

"I heard a..." the man paused, a gigantic sword glinting by candle light in his arms. I mean, we're talking bigger than the biggest sword you've ever seen. So big you have no idea how he can carry it without falling over. Seems like one push and boom, but nope. Though he'd probably growl the whole way down and not give up the sword, come to think of it.

Where was I? Ah right, the intestines guy.

"He is dead," the wolf sighed, moving to slot his sword back in place.

"And you killed him," the brothers shouted, spinning on the stranger who came to murder them all.

His soul green eyes whipped around the group, a sneer rising against his lips and elongating the canine tooth. "Why?" He spoke in a wrath that would shake the Maker, "Why would I kill him?"

"Because..."

"Brothers," Sebastian cooed, rising to his feet, "you are being hysterical. You must calm yourself."

"But he's..."

"Dead, yes. I -- in fact -- have his blood all over me from finding his body. I can tell."

"And that man..." the monks all whipped their head to the armed stranger.

"Does not appear to have a mark on him. I dare say, nothing human or elven could cause this. It looks to be the work of a wild animal. Perhaps one is lurking in our monastery or it dashed out the window."

The monks all glared at the brother. A wild animal? What kind of animal could eviscerate a grown man with one swipe of its claws? A great wolf or bear would not easily hide within their monastery, its steps echoing and breath bouncing upon holy stones. But if it were to go in the guise of a man...

"Come," Sebastian clapped his hands, "I believe that this is no concern of our newest guest. In fact, I imagine what he requires most is rest?" He aimed the question at the wolf who nodded his head, the white hair dripping off his pointed ears.

"Then, I shall show you to a bed, and after we will prepare our fallen brother for the pyre," Sebastian smiled wide as if nothing bad was happening. As if it were normal to invite a werewolf into your home on a full moon, but the other brothers were wise. They knew what walked among them, and they were not about to be done in again.

Two of the remaining brothers followed Sebastian and the wolf, their eyes glinting by the powerful moonlight as their leader deposited him in a cell. Nodding his head in appreciation to the brothers, as if they were going to offer to tuck in the stranger, Sebastian left the creature alone in their care.

Even with their hearts pounding in fear, even with their lives dangling by a thread, both men stood impotently in the doorframe. Their hands were built for praying, not wielding a dagger. Their hearts picked by the Maker for love, not invoking death. Yet the creature wouldn't care. One by one it would pick them all off until...until only the hollow stones of the mountain would answer its howl.

His haunting eyes whipped from one brother to the next, a question burning inside that animal mind. Both men looked at the sword strapped to his back, well aware that they had no hope to rip it out of his hands before he attacked again. "Good evening," the first monk said, tipping his head.

The man looked about to speak, when the second slammed the door in the wolf's face. His clawed hand lashed for the latch, but they beat him too it, locking the creature in. The pawing of the door wouldn't stop, his fists banging like the undead cracking out of a coffin, but both brothers took a deep sigh of relief.

It would not hold forever, but it would hold long enough for night to pass, the storm to break, and their leader to insist the stranger leave. They would survive the night, regardless of what little Brother Sebastian did to aid them. Nodding and incapable of stopping the massive smiles of relief upon their cheeks, both men left the creature to bay and bash at its imprisonment. The first monk held the key safe in his pocket while they returned to their rooms.

There they found their third brother, who informed them that Brother Sebastian and the fourth were laying out the fifth. Tomorrow there would be a funeral, a sad occasion to be certain, though in truth no one really much cared for the man. He was sloppy in his calligraphy, terrible at finishing his chores, and left his toenails clippings wherever they fell. It was almost a relief to be rid of the sound of him clearing his throat nightly before vespers. With certainty shining hope in their hearts, the three men tucked into bed after prayers.

A scream, as wet and visceral as the innards of a bloated goat, erupted through the halls. As one, each brother leapt from bed and dashed into the hallway in a panic.

"I don't understand!"

"The creature is contained."

"Do you yet have the key?"

"Yes, here in my pocket."

The key was passed from hand to trembling hand like a holy relic of Andraste. Here was proof that they were safe from the creature, yet another of their brothers was screaming in agony.

"Could he have escaped?"

"I don't know how."

"We should check."

All three tonsures shook negative quickly, none willing to return to the door where they attempted to imprison a werewolf. He could be waiting there, prepared to gnash his teeth into the throats of those that dare try to impede him. But what other option was there? To flee into the night? To risk falling off the mountain, or freezing in the rain?

"Sebastian, Brother Sebastian. We must speak to him. Convince him to...to banish the creature. He can do it. He is the leader."

They may never be certain again, but all three heads nodded and together they walked towards the holy sanctuary. Here was where they gathered three times a day, their backs bowed, their knees bent to honor their most beloved Andraste. Here was where they worshiped with their very souls to the Maker's holy word. Here was where they found their idolized leader with his head thrust deep into the chest cavity of their brother.

Viscera dangled off Sebastian's white teeth, crimson rivers spilling off his lips while his eyes rolled back in ecstasy. Smacking his ravenous tongue, he bit down on a scrap of intestine and yanked it against his teeth. The monk's final meal splattered against the holy fire of Andraste, forever dousing the eternal flame while their leader -- the man they all swore to serve -- devoured the dead man.

"Brothers," Sebastian rolled the word around in his bloody mouth, but his eyes...his murderous eyes glinted with the same ferocity for the light as they always had. They were the most pure of blue, as safe and true as the Maker's love. "Why are you trembling?" he asked, their dead brother's liver weighing in his hands before he took a nibble.

"Wh...what are you?"

The horrific monster grinned, a tongue lapping up the blood against his palm. "I am your leader. I am the man you turn to for guidance. For succor. I am your fellow Brother."

"Y-y-you cannot be," the second stuttered, stumbling back against the door. This was the man their once leader turned to, his chin twisting like the clockwork whipping of a bird. "You killed him, took his place. Assumed his face! You know nothing of the Maker's love!"

Sebastian's hand lashed out, pinning to the brother's throat. "As Andraste called out in a great voice," he laughed, his nails piercing through the screaming man's flesh. Blood burbled to the surface, slicking down the holy robes until they turned as crimson as the Sisters. "'Maker of the World, forgive them! They have lived too long in shadow without Your Light to guide them!"

Bundling his fingers together, Sebastian yanked, tubes wrenching out of the man's throat and silencing his screams. With a smile, the horrific creature finished the verse, "Be with Your children now, O Maker."

Eyes of pure evil glinted upon the remaining two monks. They huddled together, trying to slip unheeded towards the door, but their once loved leader tipped his head back and forth at them. "Do you not know the next verse, Brothers? We spoke it often. You said it gave you comfort in times of great distress."

Gibbering under their breath, both men tried to run but their legs wilted below them. Bending to a knee as if they were about to receive repentance from their leader, they clacked their teeth in agony. They did not want to die. What did they do to deserve death?

_Please. Holy Maker. Show us mercy!_

"Come now, men of the cloth," Sebastian clucked his tongue as he'd often do when he found the brothers lagging. The hand that eviscerated three grown men reached for them, "tell me what sins weigh upon your full hearts."

A blinding flash of silver struck through the air. Sebastian twisted, narrowly avoiding the swing of a massive sword. The creature dressed in a monk's flesh darted to and fro, moving faster than the eye could see. But one eye managed to keep up, the green unyielding orb of their visitor. Fenris snarled, lashing faster towards the creature while it danced bloody footprints upon the marble floor.

"I let you into my home," Sebastian cackled, "and this is how you repay me?"

Fenris grunted, his eyes narrowing as he plucked the sword back. "Die," slipped from his lips. Sebastian moved to the left, but it was a feint. The long hands ready to pierce that tan throat zoomed in to the right. As if sensing he would come, Fenris barely twisted an arm to drive the blade straight through the heart of their once beloved Brother. The massive edge of steel glittered by the lamplight, but no blood stained the blade.

Glancing down at his chest, Sebastian began to chuckle, "Foolish. You cannot kill that which is already dead."

The creature began to crawl its way along the blade, fingers reaching for the hand brandishing it. Fenris did not let go of his weapon. He did not cry in panic, nor run away. Smirking to show off that deadly canine, he tipped his shaggy white hair and smiled, "I know."

White light erupted off of the man, reaching out to envelope Sebastian. The creature screamed like a rabbit facing the killing knife, its lips shredding from such a powerful force while death ensnared it. Both monks had to turn away, unable to stare at a truly holy sight, but they could not escape the sound shaking their souls and robbing them each of a decade of life.

When the light vanished, and the screaming ceased, they both turned to find the tattoos upon the stranger lit up bluer than a vial of lyrium. They glowed more beautifully than the holy fire of Andraste, who must have sent him here in their time of need. Tumbled upon the ground at Fenris' feet was the holy brother's cassock, the only remaining piece of their once illustrious leader.

Stretching his arms wide, Fenris slotted his blade upon his back and slowly dimmed the glowing tattoos until only the white stripes remained. His eyes darted over the pair of men huddled together in fear. With a single huff, he turned on his heel and marched towards the door as if his job was finished. Yanking upon the handle, he lifted the cloak's hood to protect his head and moved to return to the storms outside.

In a voice as soft as a chantry mouse, the first brother called out, "Thank you."

Their savior paused, twisted his head to gaze back at the two people he saved that night, and he grunted, "First time I heard that. You're welcome." Without another word, he stepped into the dark night of shadows and magic, and was never seen again.

Confused and terrified, the monks gazed around at their fallen brethren shredded to pieces of meat, but one matter clung tight to the first's mind. "How did he escape his room?"

"Perhaps he picked the lock," the second insisted, already walling off the terrors that befell them. "Or broke the door."

The brother nodded his head, wanting to embrace the simple answer, but he had to know with a burning certainty. Walking down the corridor, he aimed for the hero's room. The second monk scampered behind, never again able to face the dark alone. Before them stood the door, unmarked and unbowed. No sword cut through it, no fist of the Maker Himself shattered it to pieces.

"It's," the second monk grimaced, "It's as I said. He picked the lock."

Trembling hands reaching forward, the brother gripped against the cold handle. It felt as if no one had touched it in an age. With a breath hitched in his throat, he tugged upon the door. It refused to budge.

"Sweet Maker!" the second brother cried. "M-mmaybe he stole the key off you. And used that. It doesn't matter. Who cares? Stop thinking about it."

The man turned on his shoe, clearly wishing to get as far from this horrible place as possible. Already the second monk was walling away what occurred, destined to never speak of this blood stained night, but the first could not let it be. His fingers dipped into his pocket and wrapped around the piece of iron he knew was safe inside. No hand touched it, no finger lifted the key from his pocket. It was almost as if the stranger who came to their aid was not of mortal make himself.

"You cannot kill that which is already dead."

They say that every full moon in the halls of that monastery one can hear the screams of the long dead monks. None ever last through the full night before terror sends them fleeing out the door, but if they did, they'd find that one room with the unblemished door always smelt of lyrium and graveyard dirt.


	4. Dark Circus

"You're trembling." The witch grinned like a fat moon under her cowl, her fingers clawing against the table.

"N-n-n-no I'm not," Lyrium insisted, her chin stuck up, but no one could deny the shake and rattle in her bones. Almost as if some chill seeped into her marrow and froze it solid.

"So, he was like, full of ghosts or something?" Snails had a hand pinched to his forehead, trying to unravel the logic in the story. Though the skin under his blood red mask was looking a lot paler than when they first stepped into her web.

"Demons, creatures that prowl thedas for victims, forever trapped under his very skin. A rather lonesome life when you think upon it."

"What happens if one gets loose?" Snips asked, worrying the bag back and forth so hard his excess candy bounced upon the wall.

The witch chuckled, "I pray none of us ever live to see it. Though they say that if his skin glows blue without a monster around, he has finally been beaten by the creatures he trapped, and will be consumed by them all."

All three children gulped loud, their eyes widening as they mentally thought upon a man who stalked the land building up monster after monster beneath his tattoos. "Do they wriggle?"

"Stop talking," Lyrium hissed, a grit to her jaw.

"I want to know if you can see them wriggling," Snails insisted.

"And I want you to shut up!" Lyrium spun and raised a fist at the boy she had a good four inches on.

Sliding a hand between them, because the witch had little use for spilled children blood, she coughed, "Now, let's have none of that inside. At least sock each others noses outside where it's easier to scrub up the mess. I believe our bargain has been more than met." Her gnarled fingers reached for the candies, but all three children shouted.

"No!"

"We ain't scared."

"Really?" the witch darted her hand between them. "You all look as if you're about to sprinkle your cloaks, so to speak."

A look of consternation passed as each child declared the other the weakling for giving it away. "But..." Lyrium began, "we ain't running."

"I don't remember running being part of the deal, only that I startle your nerves, and lift the goosepimples off your flesh. In that regard I'd say I've done a Maker damn good job."

They could feel the gold slipping away from their grasp, the evil witch reaching for the only prize she cared about. "Another!" Snips suddenly shouted.

The witch paused, her head twisting to the side and revealing the shine of her nose. A swipe of red glittered across the bridge. "You want another story? I see three candies for three stories."

"That thing you said earlier," Lyrium demanded, a hand smashing on the table, "Double down!"

"Double or nothing? You don't know about betting? Maker's sake, what aren't they teaching you children? Very well," the witch sighed. "It's a lovely night and I'm in a generous mood." Her hands rolled and out of her sleeve another gold sovereign appeared. Laying it safely upon the table, her eyes glinted up at them.

"I have lain down my bet, now it is your turn."

The children had a long debate about who would sacrifice the final candy, heated whispers insisting that it should be this one or that because they shook more than the others. In the end, Lyrium slammed a toffee piece right beside the new coin and glared at the witch with a mighty dare. They knew what was on the line now, and none of them were going to get scared.

Cackling into her cowl, the witch tented her fingers and leaned back. "Very well, let us begin."

 

* * *

 

 

 Nothing strikes joy into the hearts of children everywhere like the sound of horns trumpeting through their streets, or bells jangling against their wheat fields. Why? Because it heralds the arrival of freedom, of casting off the scythes and schoolbooks, sneaking off to some fallow field and taking in the night's thrills and chills of the circus.

Three children, two boys and a girl, all crossed their family's fields by following the lights shooting up into dusk's sky. Reds and greens burst apart the blackening horizon, mage fire calling to one and all that the circus was in town.

"I'm going to cover my body in fairy floss and eat it for a week!" the first boy insisted.

"You won't last a day," the second threw a hand at him, unimpressed by anything. "Me, I'm holding out for a candied apple. What about you?" he turned to the girl with purple ribbons in her pigtails.

"I don't care about the food. I want to see a griffin!" There were posters all along the thoroughfare in their local town. 'Come and see Thedas' Last Living Griffin!' She yanked one off of the wall and kept it tucked tight in her pocket.

"Psh, there ain't no such thing as griffins. My Pa told me," the first boy insisted, tired of such talk. His sights were only set upon sugary treats.

While the horizon behind them turned to inky purples, the one before them lightened with the color of the rainbow. But it wasn't the soothing light after a rainstorm. No, these colors strobed against your eyes and drove your feet wild with a sycophantic beat. It was impossible to not scamper back and forth, to hop as if the ground turned to lava, to shout at the top of your lungs the second those vibrant colors struck your face.

These children were no different, dashing towards the line of tents that popped up like mushrooms after a rainstorm. They teetered in the wind, trembling against their stakes as if they had no desire to remain. But someone wished them to be here, and someone would not let them leave.

A trio of mages dashed out to greet the children, their wardrobe an eclectic mix of colors and fabrics that were far too large for the gaunt frames. They spoke not a word, but launched fire over the heads of children who'd clap in amusement. "Ooh," the second boy insisted, "fire an apple off my head!"

The mages smiled, but it was the girl who tugged on him, "No. We need to find the griffin."

"Maker's breath, we can do other shit besides find the griffin, you know. Look, clowns!"

All three children followed the boy's point towards a raised platform that bore a resemblance more to the gallows than a circus. Jibbering and cavorting across the stage was a man with hair as green as the plague, his skin paler than death, and lips redder than blood. Together, the children all shivered and shook their heads no. "Okay, forget the clown, but food!"

Sitting beside each open tent were food carts of every imaginable variety. They'd never seen a circus so stocked before. Anything that passed through their quiet town was little more than a chantry festival gussied up with perhaps a dog in a costume. Here there was a fairy floss drum the size of three grown men. The boy could easily leap inside of it and coat his entire body in the sticky treat like a spider ensnaring a fly. But he wisely kept it to a giant puff of blues and pinks upon a cone, the sugar cramming quickly into his gullet.

Next to that sat a popcorn machine six feet tall. Three buckets of kernels ricocheted like shrapnel inside the glass walls, each one a different color. At the bottom the blues, yellows, and reds of the corn all merged together to create a tempting mix. But the children shrugged it away. They had only a few coppers between them and she was going to see her griffin.

While the second boy gnawed upon his candy apple, she spotted a wooden sign. Five feet tall, the sandwich board rested upon the grass right outside a great tent. It bore a detailed drawing of a griffin, its eagle-like wings outstretched while the claws slashed through the air, and a beak cracked open wide in a screech.

"Hello there, little missy," a man in a tall hat shouted from above her. He was locked away safely at the top of a podium, the mustache twisted upon his lips glistening by the orange torchlight rampaging out of the tent. "You want to see all the wild animals of thedas?"

"Yes!"

"That'll be two coppers," he said, holding a hand out for her.

She'd worked hard to earn the coins in her pocket. Scrubbed out chicken coops, weeded gnarled gardens, suffered from pecks and thorns. And all she had to show for it was two coppers.

The barker twisted his head, "If you don't pay, you can't get in."

Nodding her head, the girl dropped the coins into his hand. It was worth it all to see a griffin. The barker smiled wide and with his cane tugged open the canvas door. "Head on inside, the show will begin soon."

Seats set up in raised rows lined one side of the tent while the other held...a pole. It was a good sized pole, no doubt to keep the tent up, but there was no griffin here. Nothing but three circles painted onto the ground. "Wow," the first boy sighed at the disappointment, "look, rings. We coulda seen that at home."

"Shut up and sit down," she snarled, stomping her feet up into the stands. In true child fashion, they skipped towards the top and back, not wanting anyone to see them in case they wanted to get up to mischief.

A few more people filtered in to watch the show, but it wasn't until the lights dimmed that a swarm emerged from watching the clown scamper, and the mages cast. They filled the stands to nearly bursting, practically obscuring the children's view. Twisting to find a hole between two adult shoulders, the girl glared down at the darkened stage.

Shadows shifted around but she couldn't make them out. It almost looked as if someone placed something upon the ground. Suddenly, a bolt of white light zapped from behind, literal stars erupting in the air in order to silhouette a man standing upon a circular platform. She stared down at the man, then further down as it was a dwarf.

He stood proud, his coat cut scandalously low in the neck revealing a line of hair that should probably turn her stomach. In the limelight, his crimson coat practically glowed, the gold trim glinting to catch the eyes of the audience as he posed with a baton tucked under an arm. Tipping back his strawberry blonde hair, the dwarf shouted, "Ladies and Gentlemen, I -- Ringmaster Varric -- welcome you to the one and only Best Circus in Thedas!"

Polite applause broke through the stands, people shifting to watch, but just as many were whispering to themselves or noshing on fair food. The Ringmaster paid the rudeness no heed, his eyes glimmering to match his smile. It never wavered for a second, as if it was forever etched upon his cheeks.

With an emphatic wave of his baton, the dwarf pointed to the right most ring. A great bang erupted, causing all voices in the stands to die while a puff of red smoke cast up from the ground. As it cleared, a trio of acrobats stood in the middle. They all bowed to the audience while the Ringmaster droned, "The Flying Farfalles will chill your spine as they leap from platform to platform twenty feet in the air without a net to catch them."

All the eyes in the audience trailed up to watch the acrobats ascend into the heavens. The girl followed suit, but she could feel boredom circling her legs. She'd seen this before. They'd leap about on their swings, catch each other, bow, then walk down the ladder. Sure enough, that was all the Flying Farfalles could manage. They didn't even do any fancy flips in the air, just technical stuff, but the audience was wooing along to match each jump.

The anger inside of her was beginning to percolate, when the light of the big tent honed in on the dwarf. He drew a finger thoughtfully over his beardless chin and smiled. "Ladies and Gentlemen, if death defying leaps through the Maker's unbreakable sky did not cause your stomach to plummet to your toes, let us see what awaits in the left ring!"

Folding her arms tight, the girl harrumphed, "It better not be clowns next."

Blue smoke twisted like a tornado around the far left, obscuring any vision of what could be inside. The three children leaned further out of their seats struggling to get a good look. Waving his baton like a magic wand, the Ringmaster spoke, "Taken from the wild lands in the far west, ripped out of the arid deserts that crawl with darkspawn and little else, I am pleased to present to you..."

A great roar erupted from behind the blue smoke, parting the mist curtain to reveal a head covered in a luxurious mane. Every audience member gasped in shock at the massive creature rising out of the mist.

"The Great Orlesian Lion."

Everyone in the first few rows gulped in terror at the huge cat standing only a stone's throw away from them. One good leap and it'd be able to gore a dozen people before anyone could think to stop it. But it didn't move. The lion remained standing in place, only the twitch of its tail betraying it being a stuffed lie. Its mane, instead of the traditional golden colors of the grasslands, was a deep green -- the better to hide inside what was once Orlesian forests.

"I thought they were all extinct," people cried, jabbing a finger at the creature with long black stripes upon its soft grey sides.

"This is amazing!"

"It's all a fake," the second boy muttered beside the other children. "Look. I bet they painted a normal lion to look like that. I could do it too...if I had a lion."

"Shut up!" the girl hissed, jabbing her elbow into his side. But the magic was destroyed. She could see how easily someone who wanted coin could paint a lion, even train it to not rush out into the audience mere steps away. It probably wasn't even a lion, but some mule in a costume or something.

"It's said," Ringmaster Varric continued, "that the Orlesian Lion would leap out of the highest branches in the sacred forests and rip out the throats of ancient elves. They'd be dead before they even knew one was above them."

The audience shivered at such a thought, a few praying while they pointed at the lion who cracked back its head and gave a mighty yawn. Its teeth certainly looked realistic, though the gums and tongue were pink. Weren't the Orlesian Lions supposed to have black and green mouths?

Snickering, the Ringmaster waved his magic baton and blue smoke once again swallowed up the lion from view. As the light swung away, no doubt to hide handlers dragging it back into a cage, he focused back to the right. "Now, Ladies and Gentlemen, I have a rare treat for you. From the savage lands of Seheron itself, plucked out from under the noses of the ox men..."

Green smoke swirled against the right ring, once again acting as a curtain for whatever they hid inside. Varric paused, using his baton like a cane while watching the smoke. After scratching his chin a moment, he jabbed to the right. It looked as if a great hand clawed apart the green fog to reveal a huge, lizard-like head covered in feathers.

Beady red eyes whipped back and forth as it tried to size up the audience from around its hooked beak. Upon realizing it wasn't alone, this creature hefted up wings as mighty as a dragon's and a great squawk erupted out of its beak. "A fearsome Roc! A bird known to nest in the high cliffs of Seheron, its preferred diet -- the bones of small children. It will stand outside villages mimicking the cry of mothers in order to lure unsuspecting boys and girls into its greedy jaws."

After a round of gasps, and parents clutching tighter to their offspring, the Ringmaster jabbed his baton towards the bird. Its red eye snapped over, almost as if it was waiting for the cue, and raised a foot high. "With a single swipe of its talons, the Roc can gut a grown Qunari and rip apart flesh with its beak."

The bird squawked again, the brown and grey feathers shedding as it shook its entire body. That display was enough to send the audience scampering back in their seats, fearful eyes watching in terror at the bird that would disembowel them all without thought. Only the girl peered down closer, her eyes widening at the massive feathers tumbling into the dirt.

"Psh," the first boy complained, "That ain't nothing but a chicken."

"It's huge!" the girl insisted, needing to believe.

"So? My Gran had one that got to being thirty pounds. It's true, we weighed it at the scale down at the feed co-op. Just a big ol' chicken."

"With red eyes?" her trust was waning once again.

"Sure, red eyes, blue, chickens are weird and evil."

She slumped back in her seat, her arms crossing so tight into her pits nothing could excise them save a real live griffin. The smoke resumed, hiding away the Roc-chicken from the audience.

"I must ask you, Ladies and Gentlemen, my very good folk, to not make any startling moves. To stash away anything shiny on your person," the Ringmaster who'd been all smiles before suddenly turned deathly serious. That made the girl sit up. This had to be it, the marquee attraction saved for last.

Varric waited a moment for the valuables to all be pocketed, his eyes hunting across the audience as they did so, before he smiled, "For you see, our next and final attraction must be seen to be believed. Once they blanketed the skies of the Anderfels..."

The girl dug her fingers into her knees, her eyes straining to take in all of the stage lest she miss a minute of the creature.

"Claimed by those secretive and rather greedy Grey Wardens, they vanished one by one until it was said that all ceased to exist..." the showman turned around and jabbed his baton towards a final great ring behind him, "until now."

Squealing in her throat, the girl began to tremble in anticipation when the lights lifted upon...nothing.

A single feather wafted in the air as if something just took off running for its life. Perhaps that Roc-chicken escaped. Deep in her throat, the girl began to growl while the Ringmaster stammered. "Ah, it seems that..." he scrunched his face up in pain before his eyes went wide and the sparkle returned, "our dear attraction has turned a bit shy. It's already taken to the skies above us. If you head outside, you'll be certain to catch a look as it crests against the moon."

Some of the audience were grumbling at such a fantastic lie, but others were nodding in agreement and already running out of their seats to try and catch a view of this imaginary griffin. Biting on her lip, the girl shifted in her seat. She came from a long line of 'I want to speak to the Manager' types, and was not going to lose her two coppers to some painted up mule and a fat chicken.

Hopping down the stands as fast as she could, the girl got right up into the Ringmaster's face. He had to glance down from his perch and smiled, "And what are you hoping for? An autograph?"

"No," she snarled, "I want my coppers back. You promised a griffin."

"Sorry, little lady, but no refunds," the dwarf shrugged while hopping off his stand. He extended his baton and marched towards the back tent flaps where the clowns and acrobats all stood.

"That's not fair!" she cursed, wanting to give chase, but two Qunari dressed in tight swimming clothes formed up beside the dwarf.

With a tip of his top hat, the Ringmaster smiled, "You'll find life rarely is. It's lucky you got off cheap learning that lesson, for most it can be rather expensive."

And like that, the adults all fled leaving the robbed girl fuming. "Hey," the boys caught up to her, both trying to tug her crossed arms apart. "We should probably head home. Getting kinda late."

"No," she sneered.

"No?" they looked at each other. "What do you mean no?"

"I am seeing a griffin," she peered around the gap in the back of the tent, watching as a sliver of grey and silver feathers ruffled in the breeze, "no matter what."

It took a bit of convincing but the boys were no match to her skills. In the end, the three children wandered around the circus edges for the night, trying to blend in. But when the clowns began to put their juggling knives away, and the strong men tossed aside their barbells, they all hid inside the empty popcorn stand. They had to sit perfectly still, their shaking knees causing the discarded kernels to crack under their bodies, but none of the circus denizens looked their way. No one thought that a couple of children would dare remain once the fun was over.

When she was certain the coast was clear, the girl waved the boys out to join her into the dark underside. Where before the circus had been colorful and packed with life, now death crept along its dark edges. The tents stood still, looming above them like giants about to pluck each child off the ground and into their mouth.

It hadn't seemed so cold before, the girl cursed, rubbing into her arms for warmth. No fires danced around the place, no hints of any light save the full moon hovering above their heads. "This is stupid," the first boy complained. "Let's go home."

"No," she was not giving in because of a little dark, "I am finding this griffin or exposing him as a fraud."

"Great, another quest," the second boy groaned, rolling his eyes wide.

Together, the three children crept along the trampled down field, their eyes peeled for adults and their ears struggling to hear any ghosts. Both would spell doom and both seemed likely at this point. The girl led them to the main tent, hefting up the canvas and ushering the boys inside. They groaned at her insistence but gave in. Dark shadows twisted against the flat walls, almost as if gargantuan hands were reaching out of the earth to pluck then all away. In the rising chill of the night, the stands creaked and groaned as if they despised being unused.

"Where are you taking us?" the second boy hissed.

"This way," she insisted. While the Ringmaster had flaunted around his fawning fans, she watched the trail of chicken feathers. Someone already cleaned them up, as if they didn't want anyone to know where the 'magical' creatures were kept, but she was smart. She knew things, and she knew she deserved a refund no matter what.

Up on her tiptoes, she whipped her head to the right. This was the backside of the circus. Wagons that would have rattled down the streets of towns to announce their arrival all sat parked back here. Candlelight danced inside, sounds of people drinking and dancing breaking above the still air. Still, it was best to be quiet.

She eased closer to the furthest tent. This one was set up as if none of the others wanted to have to suffer the smells or sounds of their caged wildlife. And in order to make the trip to it, they had to slide past the Ringmaster's grand wagon. Decked out in gold, it cast out the greatest amount of light. Beams caught upon the grass, highlighting in a full 360 degrees and nearly landing on the door to the creature tent.

"What do we do?" the boys breathed at her.

They could try to sneak the long way, but... No, she knew. Dropping down to her knees, the girl began to crawl straight towards that lying Ringmaster's wagon. When she heard no one following, she whipped her head back and glared. They both sighed and followed suit, three children digging against fallen cornstalks and grass. When she reached the wagon edge, she paused and waved both boys towards the tent.

Barely pausing, they began the laborious trip towards it on their bellies. She should follow, but she had a thought. Written across the man's wagon in golden letters a foot tall was his name. With a cruel smile, she dug her fingernails in and began to pull upon the first letter. It stuck tight, but with a second stronger yank, the V fell into her hand. Grinning madly at her bit of comeuppance, the girl flinched when a shadow fell over her head.

Dropping to the ground and scuttling under the wagon, she watched in terror as a foot descended onto the metal stair. _Shit!_ "Hello?" the man's voice called out into the night. Another foot appeared, the dwarf easing down to the grass. He held a lantern in his hand, which he used to ferret out anyone hiding in the shadows.

"Is someone out there?" Varric shouted. The girl huddled tighter into a ball, her arms and legs sucked in in the hopes nothing could pierce the shadows she hid underneath. For a breath, the lantern skipped over towards the creature tent and she feared that he might find the boys. Drag them out. Punish them.

How quickly could she get away then?

But the lantern skipped on, darting against a few bushes and nothing of import. Secure that things were as they should be, the cheating Ringmaster returned to his wagon and the girl scurried out from under it. By the time she made it to the tent and wiggled under the door, both boys shouted at her, "What was that?"

"Revenge," she smiled while holding out the stolen V. When he found that in the morning, the dwarf was going to split his skull in half. Chuckling at her tricks, the girl rose up to her legs and finally glanced around this secret tent. In the dark it was a little hard to make out, but she could hear the scamper of claws upon metal and rumbling of creatures shifting in an uneasy sleep.

"Anyone got a light?"

It took a few tries until their blind hands stumbled upon a flint. When the spark struck upon a wick, their eyes shot open wide. "Sweet blood of Andraste!" the boys cursed, falling into place behind the girl.

That dog painted to look like a lion glared its grassland death upon them from behind thin metal bars. This close, the stench of blood and meat wafted from very real fangs. It shook its head, the green mane remaining in place with no roots to show. Almost as if it grew out of the lion's head that color.

"It's...real?" the second boy gasped.

A squawk erupted on their right and they both spun towards the roc. Stomping its foot with talons the size of their forearms against the cage, this one kept biting on the bars as if trying to escape. It lolled open its beak, the tongue twisting like it was trying to talk, but nothing came out save more bird sounds.

"Help..."

The three children froze, their eyes drifting towards the shadowed back of the tent where a tiny voice cried out. _Who...who said that?_ They all thought it but were too terrified to ask.

"Please," the voice pleaded, obvious tears threaded through each letter.

Reaching back, the girl snatched up the candle and trailed deep into the tent. When the light bounced off an eye, the pupil contracted so tight it was nothing but a yellow moon. Her hand shaking in delight, she let the candle skim across a pile of white feathers on top of the head, down the lion-like front legs, and back towards the mighty wings pinned tight inside the cage.

A griffin!

"You're real!" she shrieked, dashing towards the only creature she ever cared about. Some girls had ponies, or dragons they dreamed to become and/or ride; for her it was and would forever be griffins. For a moment, she forgot that this was a wild animal and reached for the bars before common sense paused her an inch from the half-eagle's massive white feathers. They looked soft as clouds to touch.

"You're really real," the girl continued. But the joy in her eyes was punctured by the morose look across the griffin's face. It kept its head hung low, its eyes darting around in pain.

She turned back to her friends, when the voice asked again, "Please, help us."

Whipping her head back, her jaw dropped as the griffin opened its beak and human words tumbled out. "Set us free."

"Blighted void, it can talk!" the first boy shouted.

"Wh-what do you need me to do?" the girl asked, prepared to do anything the griffin wanted. Maybe if she helped it, it would stay with her -- even let her ride on its back. Be her best friend forever.

The eagle head lifted, its feathers ruffling a moment as it turned to look at the other scared and weary creatures. "Open the lock, right there," it jabbed its beak towards the iron gate and pecked upon it.

The girl nodded, happy to help, when the boys spoke up. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"What if it eats us?"

She lifted her head up high, certain that nothing bad could happen. The griffin was a noble beast, it would be grateful for her help. Reaching towards the gate, she drew near the lock. To steady herself, she wrapped her hand around the bars and leaned into the latch. A white blur whipped from the side of her head, and pain erupted off her hand.

The yellow beak nibbled twice more upon her flesh, blood dribbling against the bars. "What the shit?!" the girl cursed. "Why did you do that?" She stumbled away from the griffin lapping a tongue along its blood soaked beak. It wasn't begging for help anymore. No. The creature was laughing inside its feathered throat.

Turning back, she tried to tell the boys to run, when the lion and roc both lashed forward. A talon nicked into the first boy's leg, while the lion's claws swiped along the second's back. "We...we have to..." the girl stumbled to a knee. Her vision swam, wet blood gumming against her skin as she teetered closer to the ground.

Before the faint took her, she heard all around the tent the sound of bones crunching, feathers and fur tumbling to the ground like a heavy snow. Then eternal silence.

When she woke, a headache banged around in her skull. She tried to stand, but her legs refused to cooperate. Reaching up to touch her aching head was proving even more difficult. As she cracked open an eye, her stomach plummeted. She gazed outside of the bars upon that treacherous Ringmaster shaking the hand of some strange woman in a feathered dress.

Trying to summon all her strength, the girl moved to stand, her body groaning at the attempt. "Ah, I wouldn't if I were you," Varric said with a twist of his finger. "You're a bit weak still."

"What did you do to me?" she gasped, confused how she was sitting down without seeing her legs in front of her. Twisting her head to the side, she spotted the lion and roc secure in their cages. Where were her friends? Did they ditch her the second she fainted?

"That is..." the Ringmaster gave a final cheery wave to the feathered woman before turning a cold eye on her, "a rather long story."

"You can't do this!" the girl cried. Her parents would come for her. They'd raise a ruckus, grab pitchforks and chase after the circus. They'd find her stuck in this cage, they'd... She tried to scratch at an itch on her head but her arm refused to lift towards it. Instinct took over and she ducked her head down, feathers ruffling against the metal bars until she could hook a talon against the itch.

Feather? Talons?

Her yellow eyes opened wide and she snapped her beak, "What have you done to me?!"

"It's rather difficult, you see, finding long extinct animals for the show. There's a rather lacking amount of them to delight customers with," the dwarf chuckled while tugging upon a gold ring around his neck. "But bratty children who go where they're not wanted. Oh, there's a never ending supply." He grinned wide and waved towards the outside of the tent.

"Come on in, Daisy," Varric called to an elven witch with hair as black as her heart. She wore the tattoos of the barbarian wanderers and clung to a crooked staff. "With the help of a little magic, of course."

"How could you?" the lion cried, sounding just like her friend.

"Me?" the dwarf placed a hand to his chest in mock pain. "I did not tell you to trespass upon my property. I did not tell you to walk right up to my animals. And I certainly did not tell you to let them take your blood. This, my newest additions, is all on you."

No! No, this...this was a dream! She'd wake up in her bed, covered in sweat. Her eyes snapped open twice, refusing to shift away from the dwarf framed by her eternal cage. "I told you," their captor, their tormentor, their only chance to return to normal, stomped around the room and eyed each of them up before landing right on the girl, "life isn't fair."

"I'd suggest you rest up. After all," the dwarf waved his hands wide and took a great bow, "the show must go on."

 

"Hey Hawke..." a voice shattered apart the story, all three children shaking their heads as if they emerged from underwater. They took a deep breath together and turned, no doubt hoping to be swallowed by the comforting reminder that all was safe and griffins weren't real.

A woman with hair as dark as the night leaned upon the door frame. She picked at her bone white corset before jabbing to the witch, "Please tell me you're done because I'm tired of taking all of Varric's coin."

The name caused the children to stand up straight, then Snips pointed a trembling finger to the woman's festive hat. Leather, tricorne, with a skull and crossbones embroidered on the front, he gasped, "Are you a pirate queen?"

She smirked, "Yes I am. Any of you children wish to join my crew?"

That was the wrong thing to say as Snips began to scream at the top of his lungs. Isabela frowned, her eyes whipping back to Hawke in confusion and annoyance, while the story telling witch couldn't cease smiling. Poor Snips was so far gone, even his fellow tale hunters couldn't shake him out of it.

"By the void, what is that..." Anders wandered into the darkened doorway, a finger pinching into his nose.

The children needed no introduction, only to size up the man with pale skin and bloodshot eyes to begin screaming, "Darkspawn!"

"What?" Anders whipped his head behind him, "Where?"

At that moment, an elf with nut brown skin and his tattoos lit up like Satinalia at the Hanged Man thundered towards the screaming. With broadsword brandished at the ready, he sneered at Anders before focusing past the children at a giggling Hawke. "What have you done, mage?"

"Me? Not a blighted thing, they just..."

As one, all the children shrieked until their voices scraped out. Their eyes bugged out at the elf in battle mode who was breathing heavy like he ran all the way across the mansion to find them. Tears lolled down their wide eyes while the candy sacks trembled in their tight grips. Still, they remained rooted on the spot, too terrified to run, but not yet scared enough to risk it.

At least until the last person strolled in. "Hawke, I'm tired of Rivaini picking all my ill gotten earnings off me. Get in here already. Also Daisy's been talking to your festive gourds. I think she's under the impression the faces are real."

When the dwarf in red -- who cursed children into serving in his circus as animals -- paused before them, the kids lost it. Candy sacks plummeted from their fingers, splattering like wet laundry as they screamed their bloody heads off. Like cats escaping from barking mabari, the children all dashed between Anders, Isabela, and Fenris. None would go anywhere near Varric, who couldn't stop chuckling.

"Nice work," Varric said, eyeing up her progress for the night with his official seal of approval. Then his eyes shifted over to Anders and he gasped, "Blondie, you look like shit."

"You spend five nights trying to combat a blood fever epidemic and see if you come out looking like roses," Anders groaned, his body leaning towards Isabela who greedily wrapped a hand around him.

"There, there. I'm sure someone can strip off your clothes and bathe your supple naked skin until all the grime's off."

"Ha, don't even think about it, Isabela."

She snorted and rolled her eyes, "As if I'd touch anything that's been plague ridden. My standards are above catching blood fever."

"The children are stuck at the door," Fenris remarked, eyeing up the screaming kids who were having trouble getting the massive door open.

They were in luck as at that exact moment, who should come in but the shining belt buckle of Andraste himself? Smiling first as he entered, it wavered at the tiny shrieks rattling the portraits on the wall, before amping up to try and calm the children he effectively trapped yet again. "Hello," he greeted them with a jolly wave, "I'm brother Sebastian, and you are?"

"Demon!" the children screamed at once and barreled past the stricken priest and out into the night. Each of them cursed to the Maker that they'd never return to this house of terrors.

"D-d-demon?" Sebastian looked towards the group in confusion. "Why do they think I am a demon?"

"One of Hawke's little stories, I bet," Aveline chuckled from the side room where the adult party was supposed to be taking place. "How come you never include me in them?"

Tugging back the hood, Hawke smiled in the candlelight. She scooped up the coins to return to her pocket, then palmed the four candies. "It'd never work," she said, unrolling the first wrapper, "Aveline walks into the dark pit. The scary monster growls at her. Aveline punches it in the face then goes home. No suspense. You're just not scary."

"I'd say she's plenty scary," Varric piped up causing the guard captain to glower at him. "See. Piss your pants at fifty feet."

"At the Rose they call that a Lemonade with a twist," Isabela less than helpfully pointed out.

Shaking off the glare against the dwarf and the slattern, Aveline honed in on the bags and bags of candy left at Hawke's feet. "You are going to return those. The children dropped them on accident."

The champion of Kirkwall smirked, "We'll see if they're brave enough to come back for more." With a big swipe of her hand, she dropped all four candies into her mouth and bit down. "Maker's breath, I love this time of year."

 

THE END


End file.
